


your place in the family of things

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blind!Jon, Gift Fic, Happy Ending, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, but they fixed it, landmarks of Washington DC, martin deserves cherry blossoms, post-eyepocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23125501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: But the world is still here, and there are even cherry blossoms in it.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 25
Kudos: 281





	your place in the family of things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cerisiers_roses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerisiers_roses/gifts).



Washington is horrible. Jon hadn't liked it the first time he'd visited, but he'd put that down to fatigue and trauma and the appalling summer weather, as well as his grim agenda. Well, the weather is still appalling, damp and overly warm, and this time his agenda is no more pleasant, if slightly less apocalyptic in nature.

"This is _ludicrous,"_ says the director of the Usher Foundation, loudly. Most Americans are loud by default, and this one in particular projects everything she says like an opera singer who's gone a bit deaf.

Next to Jon, Martin is stillness itself, measured in tone and volume. "We're quite happy to take your opinion under advisement, Dr. Krzyzanowski."

Her chair honks and squeals as she leans forward. "You can't just waltz in here, issuing demands like you—"

"They're not demands," Martin interrupts, and though he doesn't raise his voice, she lets him. "I wouldn't dream of telling you how to run your institution, any more than I would accept you telling me how to run mine. As a matter of professional courtesy, however, I thought it best that we explain the changes to our mission statement, before it leads to any - unpleasantness."

Jon notes the smallest pause in Martin's speech, the implication it creates. Dr. Krzyzanowski does not. "The Magnus Institute has been our closest partner for over a century, and suddenly we're persona non grata to you? Is that what you're telling me?"

"We are simply updating the terms of that partnership," Martin says. He's started tapping one finger on the arm of his chair — it's a tell, not that she knows that. Jon would very much like to cover Martin's hand with his own, but he can't, so he settles for white-knuckling the folded cane in his hands. "We would welcome your continued collaboration, but it's entirely up to you whether that's still possible."

Dr. Krzyzanowski is silent for a moment, though her breathing has grown labored. When she speaks again, for the first time, she is quiet. "We observe and record. We do not interfere—"

Jon's patience gives way all at once, like a glacier calving. "The _Watcher_ observes," he snaps. "And we _killed_ it. So what do you suppose that we could do to _you?"_

Martin reaches over and touches his wrist, just once; Jon clenches his teeth before he says anything else impolitic. Dr. Krzyzanowski is silent again, and he wishes he could see her face, so he'd know just how close they were to getting murdered. "So that's how it is?" she finally says, sounding choked.

"It doesn't have to be," Martin assures her. "But, as I said, it's your decision. We have decided to move towards containment and control. And self-defense, of course. But it's really up to you what happens next."

(Jon imagines this part said with a perfunctory smile. It seems like the sort of thing Martin would do.)

Dr. Krzyzanowski breaths, loudly, through her teeth, and if there was a lead pipe in the room they might've been in more trouble. But then her chair squeaks again, and she says, strained, "I see. I'll bring the matter before our board of trustees."

"Good," Martin says brightly. "We look forward to hearing the result."

"I think," she continues, "that you gentlemen can see yourselves out? Or — uh — "

Jon unfolds his stick with a flourish; he's getting pretty good at that. "I suppose we'll manage somehow."

Martin stands, and brushes one hand lightly along the back of Jon's arm to help orientate him. "Good afternoon, Dr. Krzyzanowski. Thank you for your time."

At least inside the Usher Foundation building it had been cool. Out of the aircon it's disgusting, and Jon loosens his tie while they wait for their taxi to arrive. "Sorry about that," he murmurs, so only Martin will hear.

Martin sighs; he's tapping on his phone. "Not like you really made things any worse."

"You were doing well," he offers. "Very _commanding."_

That earns him a snort. "She only agreed to the meeting because she thought I was Jonah. Once she realized I wasn't, and you're not the Archivist anymore, that really only left one card in our hand. Which you played."

"Not very well, I'm afraid."

"You didn't see the look on her face."

Their taxi arrives; Jon expects they'll be going straight back to their hotel, to sleep off the jetlag that's been gnawing at him all day, but the driver asks, "West Potomac Park?" and Martin says yes. The aircon is back with a vengeance, and Jon doesn't understand how these people function. It's _March._

"Where are we going?" he asks, rather than gripe about the climate control.

Martin's voice is smiling, but Jon can still hear him tapping at his phone. "It's a surprise."

"And I am such an infamous lover of surprises."

That earns him another brush of Martin's fingers against the back of his hand. "Don't fret," he half-laughs. "It's a nice surprise."

"I'll be the judge of that," Jon declares, as much to get a proper laugh out of Martin as to vent his bad mood.

He does get a laugh, and a squeeze of his wrist before Martin goes back to his phone. The work of the Director of the Magnus Institute is never done.

The park is crowded when they arrive; it's late enough in the day that the temperature is starting to drop, finally, but they still take off their jackets and roll up their sleeves. Jon's getting quite good with his stick, but he still walks with one hand on Martin's elbow, and Martin alerts him to the turns of the path and the uneven bits of pavement. "Where exactly is this surprise I was promised?" Jon asks, eventually.

"It's … well, here, I guess," Martin says, and stops. "You smell that?"

He didn't until Martin said something, and abruptly he does: a subtle floral odor surrounds them on all sides. Jon's never been particularly good with smells, though since he blinded himself he'd had to pay more attention to them; he turns his head, aware he probably looks like a particularly dim basset hound, but can't place the scent. "Where is that coming from?"

"Pretty much everywhere." Martin takes Jon's hand in his and guides it up; Jon discovers a twig. He traces it outwards with the tips of his fingers, exploring the furled leaves a moment, and then he finds flowers. They are small, crisp things, velvety soft to the touch, some fully open and some still huddled in their buds.

Jon is no longer an avatar of knowledge, but he's not completely thick, either. The crowds, the season, the city … "Cherry blossoms," he says out loud.

Martin squeezes his hand once, then lets go. "I thought we could use a break," he says. "We _deserve_ a break."

They do, after all they've been through. Between breaking the world and mending it, between killing a god and working out how to keep it dead — there hasn't been much time to rest, to appreciate what they're fighting for. Jon often doesn't feel like he has the right, given all he's done, all he's culpable for.

But Martin? He has no doubt that Martin deserves cherry blossoms.

Jon lets the twig go, and takes Martin's arm again. "Tell me what they look like."

Martin hums for a minute, gathering his thoughts; he laces his fingers into Jon's. "It's a bit early yet, I guess? So the trees are still a bit bare. But all along the edge of the basin, there's these — bursts of pale pink and white, like little clouds. You can see the Washington Monument from here, and, erm … I don't actually know what the other monument is. Some kind of domed building, on the other side of the basin."

"Sounds lovely." They start walking again, and now that Jon's listening for it he can discern the soft lapping of water to their right. There are other people walking the paths, but they don't seem to react to Jon or Martin, or if they do it doesn't matter because Jon can't see it. What a novelty, to be part of a crowd.

They walk partway around the Tidal Basin, until Martin spots an unoccupied bench; he installs Jon there and says he's going to get some waters from a vendor. By then there's a bit of a breeze coming, cooling things off; Jon tilts his face into it and tugs at his sweaty collar. It's muggy and uncomfortable, Americans are loud and the bench isn't exactly comfortable; but the world is still here, and there are even cherry blossoms in it. He should try harder to appreciate the small things.

"I'm back," Martin announces from somewhere to his left. "Hand out."

Jon expects to receive a bottle of water. Instead, Martin drops a slender twig into his outstretched palm. He almost closes his hand, as a reflex, but he realizes at the last second that there's a cluster of flowers on the end he's about to crush. "What's this?"

"Don't say I never brought you flowers," Martin says brightly, sitting next to him.

Jon sniffs the flowers, not that there's much questions what he's holding. "Martin Blackwood, did you _steal_ these?"

"I found them!" he protests. "They were already on the ground."

Jon tuts at him anyway, but doesn't bother trying to hide a smile. "Picking flowers from state-owned trees … that's a federal offence, isn't it?"

Martin snorts. "You can give them back if you don't like them."

"No, no, the thrill of larceny makes them all the sweeter." Martin elbows him and laughs, but Jon makes a show of tucking the twig between his shirt buttons, like a boutonniere. Part of him wants to stroke the delicate petals, but he knows that will only bruise them, and he has learned to be more gentle with delicate things. "Did you get water, too, or was that a clever ruse?"

They stay on that bench for some hours, sipping water, talking. There are paddle boats nearby, apparently, and Martin narrates the people struggling to steer for a bit. Then Jon starts wondering about the origin of the trees, and Martin ends up reading him bits of Wikipedia — he's got a screen reader on his own phone, but he likes Martin's voice better. The breeze picks up, and the crowds thin, and they finish their waters.

Tonight they have a hotel room. Tomorrow they will carry on the grim and urgent business of drawing lines in the sand. But for now, in just this moment, there are flowers, and that is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver, because I have never met a poem I haven't managed to run into the ground.


End file.
